


Should have been a seamstress

by rthecynic



Series: Musketeers March 2021 [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, musketeers march 2021
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:56:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29784051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rthecynic/pseuds/rthecynic
Summary: Musketeers March 2021Day 1 - SewingAramis contemplates the place that sewing has always had in his life, and how he came to be a medic for the Musketeers.
Series: Musketeers March 2021 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2189187
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	Should have been a seamstress

They’d always told him that he should have been a seamstress.

His earliest memories are of needle and thread, mending the clothes of the ladies at the brothel, an attempt to help his mother earn their keep. He sits by candlelight, silence his only companion, eyes tired and sore as he tries to thread the needle, to keep his stitches small and neat. He sews well, the workload increases, and he keeps sewing. Torn cloth, jagged edges pulled together and made whole again, the blemish barely noticeable. He finds comfort in the movements, the repetitive in and out and in and out of needle through fabric. It relaxes him, he barely has to concentrate.

_You could be a seamstress for the queen herself_ , the ladies tease. Maybe he could. But he stays in the dark, sewing by candle flame, and he dreams of better things.

When his father comes for him, sends him to be raised within the church, he offers to mend the robes. Sewing reminds him of his mother, and he feels closer to her as he works. He prays as he sews, and his work begins to bring him closer to God too. He teaches some of the other children and they sew together, voices raised in harmonious song, offering praise to the God they all believe in. The monks smile at them, thank them for their efforts, sometimes join them in their work. It is warm and companionable, and Aramis is happy. Maybe he could be happy as a seamstress, if this is how it feels.

It doesn’t last. He yearns for adventure, and he finds it in the Musketeers. Long gone are his long nights of sewing; now he is too busy practicing with sword and pistol. He finds joy in this too, finds a calling and a purpose, and thoughts of needle and thread disappear from his mind. Now he has honour and family and friendship, a life that he will forever put before his own. And he knows that he could never be a seamstress, because he was always meant for something more.

Then there is Savoy.

He is surrounded by death, the smell of it hanging in the air, filling his lungs and piercing his heart. The snow has turned red, a violent crimson staining the pure white of barely an hour before. Nothing stirs, and Aramis can barely bring himself to breathe, lest he disturb the eerie peace that has settled over the scene. They are all dead, and he is alone. The friend that he had cherished above all others has abandoned him, left him among the dead and the dying, left him with the sounds of slaughter ringing in his ears. Left him, unable to do anything to save any of these men he’d called friends.

At least if he’d been a seamstress, he wouldn’t have had to live with the guilt.

Sewing skin, it turns out, is not so different from sewing fabric. The same jagged edges, torn and ruined, pulled together to once again be whole. It is the same motion, the same purpose, the same small stitches and neat lines. His fingers are deft, even after all this time, and he still sews well. People come to him, ask him to stitch their wounds, knowing that he never leaves an unsightly scar behind.

He falls back into the rhythm, in and out and in and out as needle tugs thread through broken skin. It soothes his guilt and eases his pain, helps him to escape from the nightmares that have plagued him since his return to Paris. He learns all that he can, begins to treat other things, becomes renowned for his skill as a field medic.

The blood never leaves his hands, and he knows that it never will, but he cannot bring himself to care.

He decides that he was always meant to be a seamstress after all, even if his canvas is skin instead of cloth.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, it means so much! 
> 
> This fic is kinda dumb, but I hope it's enjoyable! I'm hoping to keep the Musketeers March fics pretty short, just for my own sanity, but I can't promise that I'll stick to that! So have some Aramis and I'll just see how it goes.
> 
> I'm capitaineathos on tumblr, come say hi! Feedback, prompts and new friends are always welcome! :)


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